


They Who Are Left

by eurodox59



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 20:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8028715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eurodox59/pseuds/eurodox59
Summary: This would be it. Months of research, more months of planning, yet more months of legwork, of tracking down one of the last survivors of the Glorious March to retake the estate. These are the things I thought, going into the interview, fresh-faced as I was.Honestly, if I could go back and give my past self a few words, they’d consist entirely of “Oh, my dear, sweet baby child. What do you know about that vile time?”(An interview with a surviving Arbalest, some decades later.)





	They Who Are Left

This would be it. Months of research, more months of planning, yet more months of legwork, of tracking down one of the last survivors of the Glorious March to retake the estate. These are the things I thought, going into the interview, fresh-faced as I was.

  


Honestly, if I could go back and give my past self a few words, they’d consist entirely of “Oh, my dear, sweet baby child. What do you know about that vile time?”

  


Anyway, I remember going up to her house and knocking on the door. I remember when she opened up the door and her first words to me.

  


“Yes? Who is it?” I took off my hat and did a sweeping, theatrical bow before the respondent.

  


“Why, it’s Edmund Heart, of your local news network! May I have an interview?” I had to introduce myself. Most women over 40, survivors especially, didn’t own a radio, did not subscribe to the local paper. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t have known about me.

  


And yet she did.

  


“I know, dearie. I know.” The way she smiled at me, indulgent, if one were to go by the slight curl of her lips and couple it with her serene demeanor, as though talking to an excited child, also struck me as some sort of mask.  _ But for what? _ I wondered. “Please, come in.” Being so invited, I followed her into her parlor and took the offered seat. She seemed nervous as she leaned forward. When she spoke, her voice carried with it the faintest tremor. “What did you wish to know?” Me being the foolish, foolish child I was then, went straight for the throat.

  


“Do you remember the Glorious March?” At first, she was still, but if her sudden stiffness was any indicator, the question was quite magical. Softly at first, then with slowly increasing intensity, she began to tremble. Next, she leaned back and gripped the arms of her chair with whitened knuckles.

  


“Oh, I remember.” she began, her voice the faintest whisper. “Is that what they call it now?” A note of bewilderment here, as though she could not comprehend what her ears had heard. I nodded.

  


“What did you call it?” Her response had made me curious.

  


“When I  _ lived _ it, we had no name for it. There was nothing glorious about bloodshed. Nothing notable about slaughter.” Okaaaaay…

  


“What do you remember most about it?” I held nothing but distaste for the uncertainty that had crept into my voice, but when I’m  _ in the zone _ as my colleagues called it, I can hardly be counted on to maintain the mask.

  


She sat silent for a time, trembling ever so slightly. Not panicking, but damn close to it, from what I could tell.  _ What about it could have set her off? _ Then, she turned to me, staring directly into my soul with the most intense gaze I had ever received. It was massively unnerving. Then, she spoke.

  


“The cupboard, behind you.” Here her voice held more firmness than I had initially thought possible.  _ Who is this woman? _ “The cabinet portion below holds no shelves. Would you be so kind?” I rose from my seat and walked to the cupboard in question. Drawing open the doors, I saw, to my surprise, a— “It is an arbalest. Not a crossbow.” I turned to her, the obvious question writ upon my brow. “Few of the young folk get it right. Please, bring it.” I retrieved it from its place, grabbed the rag that lay at the bottom of the cabinet, and brought everything to her. She immediately took both arbalest and rag and began rubbing down what had looked to me like a steel crossbow. Her motions were frantic, one could say obsessive. With every motion, she rocked back and forth at a pace of one cycle in her chair to every two cycles on the arbalest. 

  


With the brisk pace she set, she soon grew tired, and I could hear her heavy, labored breaths from where I had retaken my seat. “Forgive me,” she said, after a good 3 minutes of this ritual, “I am not so young as I used to be.” She gave a heavy, weighted sigh, but all of her actions, though painting the barest sketch of a rather grim picture, confused me all the more.

  


_Oh._

  


“I— I’m sorry, ma’am. It was not my intent to—” she waved me off. Her every breath a short but labored sigh.

  


“It’s” sigh. “alright,” sigh. “dearie.” She drew a deep intake of air, then let it all out in one long, slow breath. It had the effect of quieting her breathing greatly. I also noted that the trembling had essentially vanished. When she next spoke, she continued to rub down her weapon, but at a much more sedate pace. “You couldn’t have known.” She let that hang for a bit, rubbing her arbalest (polishing, perhaps?) in the steady, regular motions of one who has had great practice at it. “You ask what I remember most?” I nodded again, though it felt dumb to do so. “I remember fields of plants turned a sickening hue of yellow. I remember walking on dead leaves mottled with a color so dark that I could scarce tell it apart from the dried blood of comrades who didn’t make it.” Her next cycle on her weapon was hurried as she finished that last sentence. She nearly hurried the next one, as well, but stopped at about a ¼ revolution and took another deep, slow breath. “I remember ruins so dark, we needed to load ourselves down with many torches in order to make it through them. And we were, at first. Then, the Master decided that we see the treasure better in the dark, so we received no more torches.” Her breath hitched here and she paused her rubbing once more. After another short period of silence, she looked at me, staring at her in rapt attention. “But they tell you nothing of that, do they?” she chuckled. It sounded just shy of hysterical, but I also distinctly recall thinking that her voice might have had a musical quality to it, once. “No matter. This is a story that must be told, so I shall do it. Just…” her arm trembled. “Just…” it then spread to her torso before I intervened.

  


“I won’t press.” She looked at me, as though I’d interrupted something. “I promise.” The face which she had here, along with her smile from earlier, is one of the things I remember most about the interview. Her glistening eyes, her sagging jowls, the sheer horror which I saw writ upon her brow. I had to ask of myself just how different is her memory from what I can recall? Gone completely was the mask of earlier and in its place, the face of a very tired, very scared old woman. “Did… did you ever lose hope?” She barked in response. It was quickly followed by a series of short breaths that seemed half sob, half chuckle. I’d have to say the expression was something like  _ all the answers I want to give, and this is what you ask me? _ “How did you sign up?” She leaned back, hands still clutching the arbalest and, I noted, doing so with white knuckles.

  


“I didn’t.  _ We _ didn’t. The Master sent couriers to all the nearest towns and villages, advertising an organized effort to reclaim the treasures of his ancestors, and a cut to each and every soul that could take them. I remember approaching the driver, intending to sell my services…” She let the sentence hang. I gave her an appropriate space to continue, then asked the question.

  


“What happened?”

  


“He took but one look at me, then gestured for me to get in.” Her features changed to show regret. “Would that I had never followed.”


End file.
